


The Fear of Being Forgotten

by agentverbivore (verbivore8642)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (Agnes), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Coma, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Headcanon, Heavy Angst, Injury Recovery, Jemma Simmons Needs a Hug, Kissing, Missing Scene, Naked Cuddling, POV Jemma Simmons, Perthshire Cottage, Romantic Fluff, The Framework
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 04:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10891710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbivore8642/pseuds/agentverbivore
Summary: Athazagoraphobia(n): An irrational fear of being forgotten or replaced.Jemma learned the word two months and eleven days after her eighth birthday.How odd, she thought, tracing her fingers over the letters.Athazagoraphobia. How did someone come to have such a strange fear? At least that was something she needn't worry about. Being a girl well into her secondary school studies before she’d even reached two digits of age meant that she was nigh well irreplaceable. Who could ever forget her?-----A stale beeping echoed in the hospital room, ticking out the hour after hour that Jemma sat without moving. But then again, Fitz hadn’t moved in eight days, twenty-three hours, and forty-two minutes, and so neither would she.





	The Fear of Being Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> A couple months ago, I found [this post](http://wordstuck.co.vu/post/158291682403) defining athazagoraphobia, or the title of this fic. I thought immediately of Jemma. 
> 
> Rated a hard T for mentions of nudity & oblique mentions of Framework content. Canon-compliant as of 4x21.
> 
> A series of Simmons-centric/FitzSimmons missing moments spanning from Jemma's childhood into the future, past season 4 canon.

****_Athazagoraphobia_  (n): An irrational fear of being forgotten or replaced.

Jemma learned the word two months and eleven days after her eighth birthday. Her grandmother had given her a lovely little satin-bound book that explained unusual or rarely used words as a present that year, and she had finally gotten around to flipping through its pages before bed. (Unsurprisingly, Jemma had spent most of the intervening two months spending far more time with the child’s microscope kit that her father had gifted her, thereby delaying her even glancing at the book, let alone reading it.)

_How odd_ , she thought, tracing her fingers over the word. _Athazagoraphobia_. How did someone come to have such a strange fear? At least, she told herself as she moved on to the next word, that was something she needn't worry about. Being a girl already well into her secondary school studies before she’d even reached two digits of age meant that she was nigh well irreplaceable. Who could ever forget her?

\-----

A stale beeping echoed in the hospital room, ticking out the hour after hour that Jemma sat without moving. But then again, Fitz hadn’t moved in eight days, twenty-three hours, and forty-two minutes, and so neither would she. 

As much as she could help it, anyway. She fiddled with the edge of the cloth plaster that stretched across her inner elbow. During her days-long insistence on sitting with Fitz and working until she passed out on the stiff plastic chair, Jemma had neglected to eat and drink for some still undetermined amount of time. May had noticed her pallor and insisted that she get some IV fluids, and then that she go back to her room and take a nap, if not get a full night's rest. Jemma had complied with one order, but not the latter. The chair was fine for sleeping, anyway - especially if she lay her head on Fitz’s mattress. (Sometimes, she would stare at his hand as she drifted off, wondered if he’d mind if she held onto it as she slept, wondered if he could tell she was there, wondered if he would want her to be. He would, of course he would. They'd been together the whole damn time.)

Although that evening she had been reading aloud from the newest printing of _Scientific American_ , she had paused when the words began to blur together. Perhaps she should join Fitz, just for a little while. Scooting towards the bed, she crossed her arms and lay her head down. From her position by his knees, she could just barely watch Fitz’s face as he slept. A fine layer of stubble lined his jaw, having grown since the last time Jemma herself had shaved it, and she tried to decide whether or not she liked the look. Over so many years of having been his friend, she had grown accustomed to him being clean-shaven - but there was something rather nice about having attention drawn to the definition of his jaw and cheekbones. If she weren’t acutely aware of what he might have given up forever to let her live long and healthy (if not happy), she might almost think that he looked peaceful now.

As her eyelids blinked slowly closed, the forefinger on his right hand twitched. Jemma rubbed her eyes and stared hard at that hand, that hand which she knew like the back of her own from watching it work on a thousand and more experiments and machines and projects during their decade-long partnership. Again, it moved. When she flickered her gaze up to his face, for the first time in eight days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-four minutes, Fitz was looking back at her. 

Letting out a strangled gasp, Jemma stumbled backwards and then sprinted out of the room as fast as she could go. Within seconds, a whole team of doctors and nurses rushed into his hospital room, and she hovered along the outside, pacing through the Playground medical wing hallway and trying to slow her pulse. Fitz was awake. He was _awake_ , and, oh God, there was so much more she needed to know, but he had woken up and that meant that the biggest hurdle to recovery had passed. 

Another two hours passed before a doctor called her into the room, asking for her help in conducting a quick diagnostic test and requesting that she stay calm while with the patient.

_The patient_ , Jemma thought derisively as she balled her hands into fists and nodded in acquiescence. Leopold James Fitz was more than a patient, he was the most brilliant person she’d ever met, her best friend in the world, and she couldn’t imagine her life without him. _But was it more than_ that? a taunting little voice wheedled in the back of her mind. _Or will you have to tell him no? Will you lose him anyway? Will you want him more than anything and have to let him go?_

Three nurses still hovered around the bed as Jemma followed Dr. Snow into the room, checking and adjusting the machines. Fitz sat in the middle of the bed, shoulders hunched as he smoothed his right thumb anxiously over the edge of his arm cast. For someone who had always occupied so much space in her world, in that moment, he looked rather small. 

At the first sight of new movement, with the doctor rounding the side of the bed, Fitz flitted his gaze up to watch their approach. He looked between her and the doctor, mouth twisting to the side. Something in the back of her head was relieved to see that the bright blue of his eyes had not diminished since the last time she had seen them, swimming with tears at the bottom of the ocean.

Trying to be as normal and calm as possible, Jemma trotted up to the bed and reached for his right hand, curling both of hers around it and giving him a warm smile that was just shy of tremulous. His hand was warm and familiar and so _alive_ that she could almost burst with relief. 

“Hello, Fitz,” she whispered. “I’m _so_ glad you’re awake.”

Fitz said nothing. His hand lay limp between hers, not reciprocating her hold. Again, he looked between her and the doctor.

“Do you know her?” Dr. Snow asked slowly, and in an instant Jemma realized why she had been called in to help. 

The machines behind him ticked up in pace, their beeping rising and rising and Jemma could almost feel the water rising around her head, her pulse echoing in her ears. She let his hand fall back onto the bed, unable to look away from the worry behind his eyes, from the emptiness of not knowing. Gently steering her away, Dr. Snow made room for the nurses to do their work, saying they’d come get her once they had finished running tests and that she might as well get some sleep. 

Numb, Jemma watched as the door swung shut. Fitz had tried to sacrifice his life for hers, and now he did not know who she was. Someone pushed a tray behind her, tools rattling on the steel surface, and she jumped, a jagged sob falling from her throat before she’d even realized she was crying. Another medical attendant rushed by with something no doubt life-saving, and, unable to process where she could go, Jemma stumbled backwards against the wall of Fitz’s room. Sinking to the floor, she grasped hard around her legs, digging her nails through denim and into flesh and trying desperately to focus on anything else. But all she could think of was Fitz’s mum, and how he might not know her now. All she could see were the sharp blue of his eyes, brimming with uncertainty as he stared mutely back at her. She didn’t even know if she was crying anymore, the breath ripping through her lungs as she tried to take in more air, but how was she supposed to breathe when he had given his last to her? Would that be the last breath of the man she knew and loved as Fitz? Would he be someone else now? 

Footsteps approached from down the hallway, different from the doctors and nurses working their damnedest to save agents across the wing - deliberate. Sure. Calm. 

Next to her, a figure sunk gracefully to the floor. For a split second, Jemma caught sight of a familiar SHIELD logo jacket, slim boots, and aviator sunglasses being put on the floor between them, and then an arm slid firmly around her shoulders. With that, face twisting in grief, she allowed herself to lean against May, unable to find the energy to slow or hide her tears. If Fitz did not remember her, Jemma wasn’t sure she could live with having taken that last breath. 

\-----

When Jemma picked up the two cups of tea, she had to put them right down again, the bases quaking against the saucers. She squeezed her hands into fists, letting her nails dig briefly, painfully into her palms before she reached again for the tea. The memory of Fitz’s face the last time she’d seen him that day was burned into her brain, his confusion and frustration mingled with acute hurt, and she forced herself to push forward with her plan. If nothing else, perhaps she could stand with him in silence, if talking didn’t work. Being by his side was always better than being anywhere else, and she was fed up with what she had been doing for the past three months - living a hollow, false life away from her best friend in the world. 

_He doesn’t want that anymore_ , an insidious little voice in the back of her head reminded her. _Because you took the breath, because you left, because you’re not enough, because you don’t know what you want_. She argued back that all she wanted was for Fitz to get better, and then blocked the voice out.

The Playground’s halls were busy, forcing her to dodge and weave around other agents in the hallway before precariously balancing the cups in one hand and pushing open the lab’s door. As she looked up, something sour and sharp darted through her gut at the sight of Fitz standing side by side with someone else. Jemma glanced down, making sure the cups stayed balanced, and forced herself to keep moving. Mack was a skillful engineer, a good agent, and seeing his face should not make her want to cry. But that was her spot, the one by her best friend’s elbow, and though she tried to make the jealousy go away she couldn’t quite. 

Her time at Hydra had stolen the one space that she herself could not replace, and even as she set the teacups on the table, she could feel the rot of regret spreading through her chest. 

The hot liquid shivered, just barely avoiding the edge.

\-----

In order to keep her mind sharp during the endless hours of isolation on the dark planet, Jemma made a game of remembering everything she could from the bookshelves in her childhood bedroom. 

“Athazagoraphobia,” she said into the sand-swept air, the ripped cloth of her handmade hair tie fluttering in the fetid breeze. “Ooh, Fitz, that’s a mouthful. I bet you’ve never heard that word before. It's the fear of being forgotten.” She paused to tighten the knot of her sweater-bag, peering out over the dim landscape that swung down the hill before her. A little smile ticked up the corner of her mouth. “I was afraid about you, once. That you’d forget me. You know when. But I’m not afraid of that now.” 

Sliding awkwardly down the steepest part of the hill, she hissed a tight breath as her hand scraped against a sharp rock. Some skin was shaved off, but, fortunately, there was no blood. Jemma pushed herself to her feet and continued walking, keeping an eye out for any supplies that she might use to learn about this desolate place. 

“I know you won’t forget about me, Fitz. We’re going to dinner.” 

\-----

Jemma flinched as a centrifuge began its spin cycle, instinctively squeezing Fitz’s hand and leaning more heavily against him. His arm muscles tensed, and although she was squinting down at the floor, she knew he was watching her carefully. 

“Okay?” he whispered, voice so gentle that it made her chest ache. 

Since her return, he had hovered nearby whenever she allowed it, and she wished she could keep him with her at all times. Of course, eventually she needed to shower and sleep, and so he would wander off to go about the daily life he’d been living without her for six months. But whenever she wanted to leave the cool, lonely dark of her bedroom, Fitz was always there - appearing by her side almost like magic. 

“I’m okay,” she replied quietly, blinking and peering out at the bustling lab around them. “It’s just....” She waved her free hand vaguely at the once-familiar fluorescent lights, and he nodded with understanding.

“Course, it’s bright - d’you want me to ask ‘em to lower the lights? Or -”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted, twitching her lips into a genuine if small smile. “I just have to adjust.” 

Shifting so that he was holding her hand more securely, Fitz squeezed his fingers around hers. “Alright. Ready?” 

Jemma nodded and made herself put one foot in front of the other, despite the glaring brightness that threatened to consume her. By the workstation that should be hers, Bobbi stood in her place, lab coat on and goggles perched upon her head. The thought that she and Fitz had been working together during Jemma’s absence wormed its way into her head, that old fear slithering through her stomach. 

She pursed her lips, pretending to be looking at the nearby shelving. There was nothing for her to fear; Fitz had spent six months looking for her, and Bobbi had helped him get her back. The warmth of his hand in hers now was a physical symbol of his constant care and support and should remind her that, for some reason, he found her as irreplaceable as she found him. Of that, Jemma was acutely grateful.

\-----

Fitz refused to be deterred from dropping kisses on her nose, forehead, cheeks, anywhere other than her mouth, and Jemma couldn’t stop giggling. She didn’t know when she’d ever really, truly _giggled_  like she was doing now, but she couldn’t stop. The two of them were naked in the hotel bed, tangled in the sheets, and they were going to be late for... well, she couldn’t remember what, but it was probably something important. 

“ _Fiiiiitz_ ,” she whined, reaching up to direct his face back towards hers, but he resisted, instead brushing his nose slowly against hers before stretching up to press a scratchy kiss to her forehead. “What are you _doing_?” 

“Memorizing you, this,” he replied matter-of-factly, dipping his head down to mouth at the tender skin just beneath her ear and making her pulse jump. “Us.” 

A wide smile broke across Jemma's face, and she felt as if the love inside her chest was so massive and strong and all-encompassing that she might just burst from the sheer force of her own happiness. (At least, she might if it weren’t physically impossible.)

“Fortunately, you have an excellent memory,” she teased, finally managing to catch his lips in a slow, deep kiss. 

“Wouldn’t matter,” he shot back, reaching up to brush stray hair from her face and letting his bare chest lean a little more fully against hers. “Couldn’t ever forget this. It’s too -”

“Magnificent?” She grinned, tracing the edge of his stubble. Fitz was so different now than the young prodigy she’d befriended all those years ago, in both his manner and appearance, and yet his gaze still made her feel oddly shy. There was an intensity to his eyes - and always had been - that she used to find intriguing and challenging but at the moment she found terribly attractive. Something soft hovered beneath the way he studied her, a light she had only ever seen directed at her, and it was a heady feeling - knowing that this kind, gentle genius looked at her as if no one else compared.

He rolled his eyes at her use of his own words against him. “Yeah,” he mumbled against her lips, “something like that.” 

As Fitz kissed her again, Jemma wound her arms around his slim shoulders and thought about how she had never been happier to have soared past the point of no return. 

\----- 

The unreality of the Framework was truly remarkable. Jemma could even taste the bile in the back of her own computer-generated throat as she watched the love of her life shoot an innocent woman in cold blood. It was hard to remember that this woman had actually died many days past, that this was just the shadow of her mortal existence, when she collapsed bonelessly onto the grass at Fitz’s feet. 

Before she realized what she was doing, Jemma screamed - for the blood on his hands, for the life he’d been forced to leave behind, for the fear of what she’d see when he turned around. And turn he did at the sound of her anguish, and numbness spread like the rising ocean through her limbs. The light that used to shine behind his eyes was gone, gaze now filled with a hollowness that took her breath away. No recognition flashed when he saw her, no flicker of regret - only cold indifference and mild surprise.

If Jemma hadn’t memorized every centimeter of Fitz years ago, she might think that this wasn’t the same man at all. For the first time, she was quite sure that he had no idea who she was or what they should mean to each other, and the fact that this whole world was nothing but zeros and ones did not stop the splintering of her heart. 

\-----

Jemma's pulse thudded loudly in her ears, adrenaline rushing through her body to counteract the searing pain of the bullet in her leg. Above her, the dead eyes of the man she loved most in every world stared down at her, a gun in his hand and lies on his lips. As the false Fitz spoke to her, she had the vague thought of needing to resist the devil when he wore your lover’s clothes. That sounded like something she’d heard somewhere, on television or in one of the trashy books Daisy kept under her bed. He was different than the devil, this man, dressed in Fitz's skin but his every movement harsh and foreign.

“And you mean nothing to me,” the hollow man said, and Jemma closed her eyes. "I want to hear you say it."

If this world had been made real, if the Fitz she loved was truly gone, swallowed by sins that didn’t exist and a life he’d never led, then maybe an ending would be easier. Were he to shoot her here, her real body would give up, too, and the last vestiges of her life would disappear. She hadn’t seen her parents for years now, and surely they had managed to create a life without her in it. Should they survive, her friends at SHIELD would put her name on a wall and then move on, working to save the world from catastrophes just like this. And Fitz would disappear from his life without ever having known her. 

"I am _nothing_ to you," he prompted in a voice she loved more than any other sound.

She did not speak.

After all, if Jemma had never existed for Fitz, there was nothing to forget.

\-----

The transport pod was blindingly bright, hexagon-patterned walls reflecting the fluorescents so that Fitz’s slumped figure was bathed with light. When he saw her and then looked quickly away, Jemma thought about leaving him in peace. Even if he’d just confessed that he would only ever love her, that she could never be replaced in his heart, it didn’t necessarily mean he wanted her there. His trauma was so deep that he probably couldn’t stand to hear his own thoughts, let alone those of anyone else.

But she was still haunted by the grief in his voice as he confessed his fear that she would never be able to look at him again, that she couldn't be with him after all the virtual memories that they both shared. His position on the bed now seemed to her to be torn between the instinct to run and the despair of knowing that he could not flee his own mind. Her chest ached at the thought of Fitz, for the first time in his life, giving up at last. That couldn’t be an option for him after everything he’d survived; she wouldn’t let it. 

As he sat unmoving at the edge of the cot, she saw his jaw flex, left hand trembling ever-so-slightly, and she found herself walking into the cell with her shoulders held bravely back. At her touch, Fitz faded into gut-wrenching sobs, leaning his weight on her as if his own body was too heavy to hold alone, and she tried to wrap her arms around him so tight that he would forget they were two separate beings. 

If it were possible for her take some of his pain into herself and give him the gift of forgetting, she would do so gladly, in a heartbeat, without even thinking.

\-----

Still half asleep, Jemma rolled over in bed and made a small noise of dissatisfaction when all she found were cool, empty sheets instead of her husband. She allowed herself a few more moments to doze before she forced herself up onto her elbows and then slid out of bed to find her preferred source of warmth.

The cottage was icy cold on this mid-May morning in Scotland, and she went about her morning routine as quickly as possible. Tugging on her robe as she walked, a small, reflexive smile tilted up her lips as she poked her head around the kitchen’s entryway. 

Steam from the kettle rose over Fitz’s shoulder where he leaned against the counter, clad in red, monkey-patterned boxers and a white tee. One hand was spread out against the spine of the scrapbook he held, the other raised to flip through its pages. His eyes flitted up as he caught her movement, and a warm smile spread across his face. 

“You forgot to wake me up,” Jemma teased, waiting for him to put the scrapbook behind him and then leaning into his open arms.

“Did not,” he huffed indignantly, stretching down to drop a kiss on her nose as he rubbed his hands up and down her back. “Wanted to have the tea ready, then I was gonna come back for you.” 

“Happy anniversary,” she murmured, and they leaned forward in unison for a languid kiss. 

When they broke apart for air, Fitz kept his eyes partially closed and brushed their noses together. “Happy anniversary.” 

Reaching out to tap the book behind him, Jemma let herself lean more fully against her husband. “Refreshing your memory?” 

The scrapbook had been her present to him on the first anniversary of their marriage, a collection of his favorite pictures. It was mostly of the two of them, from their Academy days all the way to their first night in their Washington, D.C. apartment, but she had taken care to make copies of his favorite pictures from his childhood as well. She liked the idea that the book was primarily of all the women about whom Fitz cared the most, including herself, Daisy, and his mother. (He still joked that Agent May frightened him, so Jemma had only chosen to include one picture of that particular friend, from the wedding day.) 

Its cover was a shimmering eggshell color, decorated with [delicate blue posies](http://wordstuck.co.vu/post/86457504132) and inscribed with their names. In the center was a candid picture of them at their wedding, taken as they were laughing by the edge of the sunny gardens, far away from everyone else and looking all the more joyous for it. Jemma remembered the moment well; Fitz had needed a break from the guests and she had teased him until he had burst out laughing, striking blue eyes lighting up as he had entwined their fingers. Their wedding rings were glinting in the sun.

He let out a small noise of disbelief and rested their foreheads together. “No need. I memorized it ages back. I was just....” 

Chewing his bottom lip, he took a moment to think, and in the silence Jemma reached up for more kisses. With a low hum, Fitz happily reciprocated, and after a few minutes they both completely lost track of the thread of conversation. The kissing, they agreed in the breaths between, was infinitely more important. 

For her part, Jemma felt contentment rising around her like a cloud, shielding her from any worries she might have about their jobs or what the future could hold. If, after all this time, Fitz hadn’t managed to truly forget her yet, she suspected that it might be impossible. And that was one impossibility with which she was happy to live. 


End file.
